


I Wouldn't Call It Funny

by Hildegard



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus, Culling, Vague references to main characters, only kind of a fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hildegard/pseuds/Hildegard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is really closer to an original story than a fanfiction, since its all original characters. I am incredibly shitty at writing real fanfiction and this is the closest I can come. Basically it's back on Beforus, and an indigo blood gets culled by a purple blood. A lot of the details may or may not be canon, since I don't know that much about Beforian culture or culling. Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wouldn't Call It Funny

# I Wouldn't Call It Funny

# 

     Your name is Nyokas Flidai, and you aren't entirely square what just happened. As you open your eyes, and see the ceiling of a decidedly unfamiliar hive, you are certain that your worst fear has come to pass. Culling. On Beforus, such is what happens to all trolls who find the self with some sort of disability. Such a troll would be taken into the custody of someone with a higher blood caste to be cared for and watched over. For you, such a fate is unthinkable.  
     You are a troll of the indigo blood caste, and have needed next to no one for your whole life. Your lusus, Snakedad, has been a good and protective guardian to you, and is the only one you put up with on a daily basis. You spend most of your time alone out in the desert-like area that surrounds your hive, performing FICTITIOUS STUNTS. As in they are so sick that they're unreal. Said stunts are performed with a two wheeled cycling device, and sometimes with no device at all, leading you to be a part of DAREDEVIL TRICKS OF A DUBIOUS NATURE. Basically you just like jumping off of cliffs.  
Around a sweep and a half ago, you injured yourself during one of these FICTITIOUS STUNTS. You lost all use of your left eye, which was cause for immediate culling. This is something that you could not have. Even though you did not intentionally mingle with other trolls, there were always several out and about your unusual lawn ring. They recognize you at the very least, and more than one of them was nosey enough to come around to your hive if you didn't show up for a while. The obvious solution was to start immediate work on a pair of reflective eyewear. This, to your eternal gratitude, was among your few talents that didn't involve getting the stuffing beaten out of you by the ground. You enjoyed working extensively with metal, glass, and plastics, which includes the designing and creating of a pair of shades to fit your needs.  
     Because of your FICTITIOUS STUNTS, you made the eyewear wrap snugly around your head. As for color, you made them deep blue to match your blood color. Realizing that getting used to a blue tinted, half-sized world would be difficult, you made the glass on the right side of your visor able to slide out and attach to the side. Maybe you made your new REFLECTIVE VIZOR a bit too complicated, but this was what you did best. It was fun. Besides that, once you were done, you could once again go about your sick activities without worry. Gazing at the purple and black splatter ceiling above you, you find it rather funny that you ever thought yourself safe. Lying there, you think back to the last thing you remember.  
     Outside. That's where you were. You had been fighting with another troll. You were seven and a half sweeps old now, which was around the time that your eyes began filling in. Therefore, nearly every troll you met wanted a peek at your peepers. This was obviously unfortunate on your part. Showing your one good eye had been satisfying to trolls so far. One troll, however, was a curious little weirdo who could not let sleeping barkbeasts lie. Riduek was his first name, though his last escaped you. He was a brown blood from rather far away, whose frequent journeys to your area mystified you. Riduek had wanted to know why you never took off your reflective wear. You told him it was none of his business. Things escalated, and the two of you ended up strifing on a rocky mound that was more than just several feet high. As far as you can recall, there was a shifting of rocks in the cliff above you, and some loose boulders knocked you from the mound. They must have seen your eye. Your reflective wear was certainly no longer on your face. You have to say that after nearly two sweeps of never taking them off, suddenly not having them was like being handicapped far more than only having one eye had ever been.  
     As you consider you predicament, you also realize one other important thing. It must have been one mother of a fall, and you hurt like a festering sore. Not moving sounded like a leisure activity right now, but you really weren't the best at that kind of thing anyway. So with the failing of limbs as seen in someone who is used to being practically mummified in bandages, you got up. You had been lying in a cot placed on a low lying bench, the kind that imperial drones used to transport the injured. This confirmed your earlier suspicions. You had been forcibly culled for sure. The only thing missing from the scene was your illustrious host, who, according to what you had heard, should have descended upon you to fuss by now. Maybe it wasn't your deal but you expected fussing, for the the love of undergarments.  
     Feeling rather slighted in a kind of ridiculous way, you went about searching the highblooded stranger's hive. By your disastrously awesome powers of deduction, you concluded that your culler must be a purple blood. You obviously weren't underwater, so purple was the only caste left above yours. This weirded you out, since purple bloods as a whole weirded you out. They could be unstable at best, and creepy clown religions were the opposite of your thing. So yeah.  
Your searching turns up fruition when you discover a note on the table of the nutrition block. It helpfully explains the absence of your host. It colorfully proclaims:  
          -Sista-  
               -Went out t. v[s]t a brotha when y.u didn't wake up r[ght away- -Snacks ]n the fr[dge, d.n't eat the p]e-  
                                                                                                                   -MG-  
     Don't eat the pie, huh? Your vaguely rebellious curiosity gets the better of you and you peek in the refrigerator. Sitting innocently on the top shelf is a sopor slime pie. Even if it hadn't been the only pie in the vicinity, you would have assumed that this was the one he meant. You aren't really sure if the message was meant in a protective kind of way, or a selfish way. As in, hands off motherfucker that's my motherfucking pie. You also aren't sure which one would make you feel better.  
     After another moment of not getting anything useful done, you check out the snacks your captor mentioned. Knowing what you do, you expect nothing more than faygo and perhaps some extremely cold pretzels. This is not the case. You are lucky enough to have the one juggalo who enjoys a full range of food products, most of them being of dairy in origin. Note: you fully expect to find enough ice cream to feed an army of crazed clowns if you dare to open the freezer. You don't think you will.  
     You aren't really hungry right now, so back closed goes the fridge door. This MG's hive is unusual looking, although not particularly so for a troll in the purple blood caste. Like the ceiling, the walls are black splattered with purple paint, and with the occasional mural of color. These are the only splashes of color throughout the whole hive, at least of what you've seen. They're bright, and complicated and full of life. They look a lot like they mean something, and you have the inclination to ask MG when he gets back. The patches look painted, and maybe it's something you can bond over. You paint, quite a lot actually, since it is your only other skill besides metal work and the like. You really don't like painting, though, and in your frustration end up painting pictures of all the things you wish you could do. Music, being one of them. You love the look of notes across a paper, or the dusty canyon walls where you paint, but they never make any music in your head. You're the closest thing you can be to tone deaf without getting culled. Searching the purple bookshelves that are about, you discover that MG probably likes music, too, albeit with a more skilled passion and ear. There are several shelves filled entirely with old fashioned recording disks, with music of every variety. You are hoping this means that you and MG will get along. He may be too much of a highblood for you, though, however hypocritical that sounds coming from you.  
     Your hive is filled with scraps of metal and large sheets of plastic and glass, along with every sort of odd end you might find in a desert. It's basic, and cluttered, and full of lived in energy. Your host's hive is is dark, and refined, with candelabras on the walls and gold leafing anywhere you might care to leaf. There was no clutter, no knickknacks, and certainly no scraps of metal. The atmosphere around you is eerie and unsettling, and makes the whole hive seem lifeless.  
...........  
     Maybe you're just being over dramatic and are kind of freaked out by the idea of getting culled. You don't like answering to anyone, Snakedad being the exception because he's boss and always takes care of you. Ever since you were six sweeps he's only ever cared about you eating and sleeping at home. You could totally do your own thing, as long as you gave him the occasional cuddle. Dude likes his warmth. This highblood was probably going to be different. You'd heard stories. He's going to expect things. Like your free time. You may as well kiss it goodnight and send it packing now.  
Okay, now you're making yourself worry out of your mind, and you don't really know what to do. Sitting around isn't really your strong suit. You need to do something, and waiting for the would-be juggalo is making you antsiest than even being afraid of getting culled. Yeah, that fear doesn't really work out once its already happened.  
     In the middle of your mental tirade, the front door creaks open. You straighten up whiplash fast from where you had been crouching by the bookshelf, and lock eyes with a startled juggalo. He is not what you expected, and is not surprised for long. Dark lips curl into a self-satisfied smile, and you try to swallow away a jolt of fear. Certainly a clown worshiper, but he is not the witless stoner you expected. There is a sharp glint of intelligence in his eyes, and beyond that the look of someone who has just found something that he has been looking for for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, not particularly exciting I suppose. Any suggestions or critiques would be appreciated. Also, forgive any screwy formatting I'm trying to figure this stuff out.


End file.
